“Because neither you nor Rivers expected any man to put his conscience ahead of vast sums of money. When the good rabbi realized he could no longer aid and abet your crime, this particular caper had to be delayed until another infrastructure could be identified. In the meantime, the rabbi had to go. And you could trust no one else with the job. By the same token, you realized Rivers himself was a threat. And that all you needed was his program. No doubt you downloaded his files after snapping his neck. It was simply eliminating the middleman. Good business to your way of thinking.”
Pelachi was near the breaking point. “You go too far! You’re crossing the line of your own destruction!”
“Not once the FBI scours your computers.”
For the first time, Pelachi showed fear. Panic. He urgently appealed to the policemen. “Honestly! Do you really believe I would be prowling the streets late at night? That I would kill a man with my bare hands? I’m an old man!”
“Come, come. You know as well as I the means of murder used requires not strength but skill. Anyone trained—as you, I am quite sure, were—in the craft of the KGB could easily dispatch a man several times his strength.”
It was too much for Freyda. She loosed an involuntary yelp and broke down in wrenching sobs. Maggie immediately dashed to her, embracing her, offering comfort. Suddenly the mood changed from one of interest to something highly charged with great anxiety.
Pelachi leapt on it, challenged Hamstein.
“Look at this! This is an atrocity. Charge me or leave.” He turned to Jackson contemptuously. “You can prove none of this, sir!”
The Sergeant-Major waited for Freyda to calm, then replied crisply, “Yes. I suppose one might dismiss it all as pure speculative fantasy. But there is the matter of the eyewitness.”
Both policemen were startled. This was the first they had heard of it. Pelachi gulped. Hard. But he stayed on the offensive. “Ridiculous! You can produce no such eyewitness.”
“In fact, sir, I daresay he’s outside your door at this very instant.” Jackson nodded at Turner who, though puzzled, opened the door. And a familiar figure entered. The two officers were startled.
“P.K.! What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were legit nowadays!”
The confident P.K. of the prior evening was now carefully disguised with the scattered manner of a street person. “Oh, I am, Cap’n, Special Agent. Honest as the day is long. But there’s this girl, see, oh, such a delight, but you know how—”
“Get on with it, man!” Pelachi was red in the face.
“Well …” P.K. drawled on, feigning a slowness of wit that in no way deceived those who knew him but certainly had Pelachi’s attention. “… my girl lives down near that synagogue. I was going home about two in the morning. When I saw a man run from the synagogue. He was carrying a stuffed Hefty bag.” He looked directly at Pelachi. “Yeah, that’s the guy.”
“Insane! You’re all finished! Careers over! Now get out!”
But Jackson held his ground. “Are you sure, Mr. P.K.?”
“Certain. He’d stopped under a street lamp. I saw him plain, I did.”
“Why would he stop?”
“Well, sir, the Hefty bag had split. And a big slab of silver was falling out.”
“You see! A lie! The bag never bro—” Even as the words tumbled from his mouth, Pelachi knew he had been tricked. P.K.’s ruse had exposed him. It was over. He turned to the window, perhaps to jump. But Jackson blocked his path. Pelachi turned to the door. Hamstein and Turner were waiting for him.
He backed off, began to circle, Jackson following at a discreet distance. Pelachi reached inside his jacket—and out came a 9 mm Beretta.
“Keep away,” he warned. “And no one will be hurt,” he promised. He edged toward the door, Jackson keeping pace. Across the room, P.K. also shifted his position, unnoticed by the Russian pointing his Beretta at the policemen, who quickly deserted the door to keep out of his path. He glanced down, seeking the doorknob. It was the only instant he lowered his guard. But it was all that was needed.
With a fearsome war cry, Jackson dove toward Pelachi, who, terrified by the sound and furious movement, dodged to the side—and directly into the arms of P.K., who had been moving in concert with Jackson and was now perfectly positioned to chop at the fugitive’s gun hand.
The pistol flew high in the air. Pelachi dived to catch it.
And would have, had not Maggie dived lightning-fast for it, scooping it out of the air a hairbreadth from Pelachi’s grasp.
In a moment, it was over. This man, so powerful only moments ago, was suddenly just another pathetic criminal about to take his perp walk.
As they turned to lead him away, Turner looked at Hamstein. “Your bust or mine?”
“Joint operation?” Hamstein suggested.
“Works for me.”
Pelachi was in shock. He hissed at Jackson, “You’ll regret this! I will make you pay!”
Jackson smiled. “In our next life, perhaps. You’ll be spending the rest of this one in Leavenworth.”
Pelachi’s scream of anger receded as Turner and Hamstein led him off.